Yes, I know it's not Christmas. No, I do not care. No, you are not allowed to complain. Just shut up and let the warm gooey feelings of fluff fill your hearts with childish glee, okay?
First Christmas
She stood nervously, twiddling the tiny package around in her hands held behind her back. Barton was digging through the fridge, his head buried in the icebox with his back to her. She idly wondered if he'd found his sandwich and soup yet. She'd eaten half of the soup and taken a lipstick-smeared bite of the sandwich about two hours ago.
He must have found it, because he made a sound that might have been a chuckle. "Romanoff." He muttered. He stood and turned around. "Any particular reason you're standing there, agent?" He asked.
Natasha strode forward and thrust the gift into his hands. Afraid that her nervousness would show, she strode out of the room as quickly as possible while still maintaining her dignity.
Clint gazed down at the package in his hands. It was small and fit into the palm of his hand. The oddest thing about it was that it was covered in bright red snowman-dotted wrapping paper and a green ribbon.
Clint looked at the date on his watch. It was the 25th.
Romanoff hadn't… she hadn't just…
He tore into the paper and opened the small gift box. Inside was nestled a tiny bottle filled with a clear substance. The label on the bottle was some unpronounceable scientific name. There was also a tiny note, scrawled in neat, flowing script.
This is for your arrows. It's a deadly poison.
Romanoff didn't ever use poison; she preferred knives or hand-to-hand combat. This was obviously rare, as Clint had never heard of it. That meant that it must have taken her a good amount of effort to retrieve it.
Grinning, Clint pocketed the bottle, whistling as he headed back to his quarters. He pulled out the box from under his bed. The wrapping was silver with a gold ribbon. He'd been unable to resist buying it, but he'd hesitated to give it to her. Now that he knew he wouldn't be crossing any boundaries, he could hardly wait to present it to her.
He found her executing some flips on the high bars. Her landing would have made any Olympic gymnast's cheeks green. She turned when she saw him, her eyes softening. It was the closest thing to a smile that he – or anyone – had ever received.
"Thanks for the gift." He said.
Natasha nodded. "It's traditional to exchange gifts with associates." She said. She carefully avoided suggesting that she cared.
Clint handed her his gift. She clearly wasn't expecting it, but schooled her face into an appropriately blank expression.
Unlike Natasha, Clint waited and watched while she unwrapped his present. Her eyes lit up upon seeing the contents.
Two missions ago they'd been sent to South America, and while scouting out a location had noticed a local shop. As their cover had been a couple on their honeymoon, they'd done various touristy things, and visiting the local shop had fit the bill. Among the many items had been some souvenir obsidian blades. Natasha had been fascinated to learn that obsidian was a kind of stone, and that the ancient Aztecs had used them as weapons. Clint had made a few inquiries and discovered someone that made genuine obsidian knives – the real, deadly deal. He'd bought one, fitted it into a custom-made handle, and kept it wrapped up and in his room for a good few months now, unsure of when – or if – to present it to her.
Judging by the look on her face, he'd gotten a good present. When she used the knife to kill their mark on their next mission, he was absolutely certain of it.
Second Christmas
"C'mon, Romanoff, just open it."
Natasha glared at him, but tore open the crinkly wrapping paper with uncharacteristic zeal. She held up the necklace, puzzled. It was far simpler than a lot of the jewelry she'd worn; nothing more than a silver chain from which hung a silver-fitted teardrop emerald.
"It's actually a scrambler."
Natasha cocked an eyebrow at Clint – a trait she'd learned from him.
"I know that… you don't like the earpiece. You don't want someone breathing down your neck. So, if you're ever in a situation where you really don't want Coulson listening in…"
Clint leaned forward and pressed the emerald up into the silver fitting. "You just press this in. To undo it, just push it back out again. It has to do with magnets, or something."
Natasha nodded, her eyes shining appreciatively. Without a word, she pulled her present out from behind her back and handed it to him. Unlike Natasha, Clint did not spend the next few minutes examining the package to figure out what it was; he tore it open first thing.
He grinned at the watch. "Nice." He said, picking it up. "I'm assuming it's not exactly standard?"
She shook her head, her long red hair swishing. "It's a heart rate monitor." She grinned at his confused look. "It's for me."
He understood in a flash, but she lined it out for him anyway. "I know that you hate when I go off grid, when I don't let you know if I'm okay. Now you'll always know my physical condition, even when I have to… improvise."
As they raised their glasses of eggnog (okay, so it was ninety percent alcohol with a dash of eggnog…), Clint decided that it was the best Christmas he'd ever had. Especially considering their current location.
Yes, they technically should have left the château the minute they'd finished 'dispatching' the mark, but hey, the guy wasn't using it anymore and it was Christmas. They'd report to Fury in the morning.
Third Christmas
"Clint, turn that shit off before I beat you to death with the radio!"
"What's the matter, Nat? Don't like the Muppets?"
She glared at him. "If I have to listen to Miss Hoggy do the 'five golden rings' one more time…"
"It's Miss Piggy, but okay." He strode over to the radio and turned off the CD player that was giving her so much grief.
"I don't see why you can like that stuff, anyway. It has no class."
He snorted. Before Nat, he never would have believed in an assassin with class, but after suffering through three operas, several dissertations on etiquette, countless dresses that cost more than his salary for a year, caviar, premium vodka and one recitation of the noble families of Europe (which, in Nat's defense, was for a dare), he had to accept the fact that Natasha Romanoff was an assassin with an overabundance of class.
"Look, in the US, those guys are cultural icons. Every Christmas as a carnie, we'd listen to John Denver and the Muppets. It'd play on repeat over the sound system as we set up, and we'd sing the songs together while crammed in the wagons to travel." He explained. He strode over and plopped himself down next to her on the bed.
"So…" He said, slowly. "They're really sending you to Japan?"
Nat nodded. It would be her first mission for SHIELD alone, working without Clint or any other partner. He was glad – far too glad – that they weren't replacing him with someone else, and he'd known it was inevitable, but he already missed her.
"I ship out tomorrow." She explained, her voice low. "0500 hours. I should be in Tokyo within two hours."
"Well then, you'll need this." He handed her the bag. She noted the La Perla logo but said nothing, her eyes widening as she pulled out the lingerie. She then favored him with a suspicious eyebrow-raise.
He shrugged. "Your cover is that you're a model, right? I'm sure they'll let you wear this. Now it'll be, you know… it will be like I'm with you on the mission. In a weird, awkward sort of way."
She chuckled, eying the deep blue panties and bra appreciatively. "I'll be sure to send pictures." She joked.
Setting aside the clothing, Nat bounded off the bed and began to rummage in her closet (they were currently in her room at the base). She emerged with a package held triumphantly in her hand and plopped it into his lap with glee. Clint unwrapped it cautiously; a little worried by her jubilant manner. She hadn't rigged an exploding package as a joke gift, had she?
Well, the present was explosive, but in a different way. Five custom-made exploding arrow tips lay nestled inside their velvet-lined box.
"I know that you couldn't get clearance from Coulson, so I got them made for you by a… friend of mine."
Clint arched an eyebrow. Nat shrugged. "Well, actually, it was a friend of a friend. You know that billionaire guy, the head of Stark Industries? Makes all of those weapons? I know a guy who knows one of the technicians there. He took care of it."
He examined the tips carefully. "I'll save 'em for a special occasion." He winked at her, and then set the box carefully on the bed. "Merry Christmas, Nat." He said.
They hugged. "Merry Christmas, Clint." She replied, smiling.
Fourth Christmas
"Five gooooold rings! Ba dum bum bum!" Tony sang drunkenly in the style of Miss Piggy.
Natasha rolled her eyes. Steve shot out an arm to keep the very tipsy billionaire-genius-playboy-philanthropist from toppling into the eight-foot-tall Christmas tree that the super soldier had spent half the day decorating. It turned out that Christmas had always been a loving, family affair for the WWII vet – a veritable Normal Rockwell setup – and he had taken it upon himself to decorate every inch of the tower the Avengers called home. Pepper had jumped in enthusiastically, enlisting an alternately amused and bewildered Thor ("What, Lady Pepper, is the significance of all these dead plants?"), to do some of the heavy lifting.
The demigod was currently downing his third glass of eggnog, which caused Dr. Jane Foster to gently extricate the cup from his hand and set it out of his reach. "I think that's the last one for you." She muttered.
Natasha hadn't been sure what to expect when she'd first met Jane; the girlfriend of someone like Thor had to be made of something stronger than steel just to deal with the guy, but from the way her teammate had talked about the astrophysicist, you'd have thought she was made of china and descended from Heaven. It was a relief to discover that Jane Foster was merely a jeans-and-t-shirt version of Pepper – sweet, thoughtful, sharp-tongued, and more than capable of handling her larger-than-life significant other.
Speaking of Pepper, the woman (whom Natasha had grown rather close to while working undercover as Natalie Rushman) was now steering Tony into a plush chair, while simultaneously kicking off her four-inch heels, snagging herself a glass of wine, and removing all other forms of alcohol from Tony's immediate vicinity. Although Clint would never understand it, in Natasha's mind, Pepper Potts was the greatest superhero ever.
Bruce sat in another chair, nursing his eggnog, cheerful but quiet. They had all been in for a shock when he'd announced that his former girlfriend, with whom he'd lost touch after vanishing for the far corners of the earth, was coming to visit and would arrive the next day. Natasha wondered what this mystery woman would be like.
Steve was carefully adjusting an ornament on the tree. He stepped back, scrutinized it, nodded, and then sat down.
"Perfectly symmetrical now, Rogers?"
Clint strode into the room, his wolfish, smarmy grin firmly fixed on his face. Steve gave him his classic 'slightly-arched-eyebrow-eagle-eye' look, which served as his universal annoyed/intrigued/skeptical/you've-got-to-be-kidding-me face.
Ignoring him in favor of accosting Natasha, Clint leaned over the back of her chair and breathed in her ear.
"If you're ready to ditch the party, there's something I want you to see."
Without a moment of hesitation, she rose and followed him.
It is nearly impossible to entirely drown out the sounds of a big city – especially New York City – but the immense height of the building did a fair job of it. The rooftop was silent, and only by sitting near the edge could one make out the muffled sounds of car engines, horns, shouting people, street music and all the rest. Laid out on the cement were a blanket and several plates of food. Natasha didn't even have to take a close look to know that it would be a mix of her and his favorites. She turned to find Clint brandishing a bottle of champagne.
"What, no vodka?" She asked. She trusted him to pick out her vodka at this point, but never her wine. The man just could not grasp the concept of a 'good year'.
"Champagne is the traditional beverage of celebration." He admonished. Natasha arched her eyebrow but accepted the bottle. They didn't bother with glasses but took turns drinking from the bottle, passing it back and forth as they ate.
She didn't know how long they'd been up there, but it was enough time for them to down half the bottle and polish off a majority of the food, when he leaned forward, practically straddling her, and kissed her. She melted into it, removing her heels and wrapping one arm around him (she needed the other to stay upright).
Clint's eyes were as gray as always, softly peering at her. "Merry Christmas, Nat." He whispered.
"Merry Christmas." She smiled. Last year it had ended with a hug and a promise to call on her mission.
That year it ended with sex and a promise to help him blackmail Tony.
Hey… 'Tis always the season for minor exploitation among friends.
The note of Natasha stealing bites of Clint's food is a reference to a Clintasha story by the wonderful Michelle. Go read her stuff, guys – she has the best Clintasha smut!